


Tea

by whatthefoucault



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: F/M, Hugs, Tea, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-14
Updated: 2014-10-14
Packaged: 2018-02-21 05:03:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2455775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatthefoucault/pseuds/whatthefoucault
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An alternate explanation of Twelve's reluctance to do hugs, as it were.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tea

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know when this is meant to have happened. Between some episodes, probably. It doesn't really matter. This is doofy and I guess you could say it contains adult content and it was the kind of thing that crossed the threshold of my very bad imagination and would not let go until I mashed it out into a story. Now I can get on with, you know, actual journalism and my Commonwealth Prize entry.

"Now that's what I call an adventure," declared the Doctor, as they stumbled together through the TARDIS door. "Tea?"

"Wow," said Clara, breathlessly clutching the railing. "Yeah. Wow. Tea, yes, good. Tea."

"Good," agreed the Doctor, flicking switches and pulling levers, sending the TARDIS back into motion. "Now, tea. Tea, tea, tea, tea, tea. We could visit the great tea rooms of..."

The Doctor carried on like this for quite some time, rhapsodising about the various places in time and space that made a particularly good cuppa, or something. Clara was not listening. Clara was waiting for the moment when she could be sure that the Doctor was so very invested in his own tannic ruminations that he would not notice that she was about to hug him. She watched him carefully, his frantic gestures and flourishes as he programmed and reprogrammed the TARDIS' navigational system, paying no heed to her movements whatsoever. This was her chance.

"Gotcha!" she exclaimed, clasping her arms tightly round him before he could evade her. He bristled against the intrusion, ineffectually batting at the air around her, wriggling in protest.

This was a Doctor who did not do hugs, but Clara Oswald was nothing if not persistent.

Her persistence, this time, won out: at long last, he settled into the embrace with a sigh of resignation, and even allowed one hand to rest tentatively - awkwardly, more like - against the back of her neck, his fingers moving at almost infinitesimal speed over her hair. His other arm hung resolutely at his side, as though insistent that the battle would not so easily be won, as if to say it may well rage on for the rest of their days.

He somehow always smelled like a dark, antique bookshop, scattered with rosewater, and something like very dark honey. She hummed approval into his shoulder. He hummed in response, a warm rumble as his fingers drifted further into her hair. She felt aglow.

Then she felt something she had not expected at all.

"Doctor," she said quietly, carefully, "tell me that's your sonic screwdriver in your pocket."

He broke from her with a start, staring into her with a look of slack-jawed horror, and bolted from the room.

She watched the empty door frame for a long moment, braced against the console behind her, then smiled inwardly.

"Well well well," she said to herself, "guess I've got it going on after all. Well played, Oswald. Well played."

She strutted out of the room with a beaming flourish, and shimmied off to the kitchen, to put the kettle on.


End file.
